Inside your soul
by Teatime87
Summary: John finds something that Sherlock thought he had hidden it well. *** I'm not an English-speaker, but I had help with the translation ;)


It was an enjoyable Saturday evening. I sat in my chair reading the newspaper with a glass of red wine next to me. The fire crackled in the fireplace and warmed my bare feet while the dry wine warmed me from within.

Sherlock was out, but I could hardly wait that he came home. I peeked at the sheet of music which was covered with Sherlock's messy scrawl and grinned to myself. I will owe him an explanation, but it didn't bother me that much at the moment.

I heard the front door slam shut and muffled footsteps coming up the stairs. When I turned my head I saw the familiar pale figure with the head of dark and curly hair standing in the living room. His nose and cheeks were red from the winter's coldness. Little snowflakes had been caught up in his hair and were turning to little beads of water. They glittered in the glow of the fire and gave him a bizarre aura of innocence.

He rubbed his clammy hands with a low groan and took off his coat and scarf.

"So?" I asked, folding the paper. "Did you catch the guy?"

Sherlock took the seat opposite me and let himself warm up from the fire.

"Yes", he answered. "He fell right into my trap."

I looked at him thoughtfully and pointed at the bottle on the table. "Want some?"

"Would be wonderful," he nodded and leaned back a little bit more into the seat.

"Are you hungry? Mrs. Hudson brought a meal up earlier," I offered while I searched for a second glass in the cupboard.

"No, thank you, I—"

The rustling noise of a sheet made me wince.

"John," Sherlock hissed from the living room, "where did you find this?"

I put on the friendliest smile I was could manage, because I hoped Sherlock would tell me something about this sheet. With unhurried steps I came back into the living room where I met Sherlock's icy blue eyes. It seemed he wanted to take me apart with this intense gaze.

I filled his glass with wine and sat back in my chair, avoiding his stare.

"John," he spat, demanding the answer.

"I found it … in your drawer."

"What do you want in my drawer? Are you rifling through my private things?!"

I wanted to defend myself. How often had he rifled through my private things, made use of them or even broken them? But I stopped myself from saying a word. Of course I knew that it was not okay.

"Yes … no! I was searching for something and came across this. It … It made me curious."

Sherlock snorted with contempt.

"What is this?" I asked finally.

"Nothing," he mumbled and grabbed the glass from the table. As if the conversation never had happened, he closed his eyes and swirled the glass gently under his nose, letting the pleasant scent raise his anticipation.

I leaned forward and watched him, intrigued. "You let your other notes and compositions lie about everywhere. What is so special about this one, that you hide it away?"

Sherlock raised the glass and let the first sip slide slowly into his mouth. Then he opened his eyes. "Nothing … it's nothing special."

"Oh come on … you may not believe it but you can't fool me. It has no title, the paper is worn, but it doesn't look old, as if you spend a lot time to fine-tune the melody and …" I smirked at him. "There are some spots on the paper that looks like dried tears."

"Nonsense," Sherlock hissed, gripping the glass tighter and avoiding my eyes.

I hit the bull's eye, I knew. And now it began to dawn on me why Sherlock had shut away this sheet. It was his way to handle his feelings. Carefully I put my glass down. "Would you play it to me?"

He clenched his jaw. "I don't think so, John."

"Please, I'd love to hear it. I'm sure it's wonderful."

He relaxed a little bit but looked at me anxiously. "I have never played it for anyone ever. Not even to myself."

"What a shame!" I said honestly and nodded with an encouraging smile. "Please, play it one time and I will never bring this subject up again."

Seconds passed by which appeared to me like minutes and he didn't react. He seemed to think about it and inwardly I waited for his refusal to play it once again. Much to my surprise though, Sherlock put his glass down and picked up the violin, which was leaning against the window. He took a deep breath and laid it on his shoulder.

I was about to hand him the sheet music, but he refused.

"I know the notes", he answered quietly and let his chin sink on to the instrument. He set the bow on the violin and began to play.

I had goosebumps after the first notes he played. The melody was melancholic and wonderful at the same moment. I couldn't believe Sherlock had written this. My gruff, arrogant and aloof flat mate now seemed to be so vulnerable. Like a little child that had to be protected. It was an overwhelming feeling to see Sherlock in a way he never let anyone see him.

It seemed Sherlock didn't notice me at all while he was playing. Once in a while he grimaced as if he would live through the pain again that had made him write this composition. Eventually he closed his eyes and seemed to be lost in his memories for a while.

Then he made the last bow and slowly opened his eyes. I stared at him with wide eyes and open mouth, totally overwhelmed.

"That … was wonderful, Sherlock."

He didn't answer and sat in his chair again. Strangely he seemed to be relieved in a way.

"What made you write this?" I asked quietly.

Sherlock turned his head towards me, a smile tugging at his lips.

"That," he answered deliberately, "will remain my secret."

With a satisfied smile he leaned forward and picked up the wineglass.

I watched him for a while and leaned back in my chair. I could cope with that. It was more I ever imagined. Sherlock had let me take a glimpse inside his soul.


End file.
